Dying for Chocolate

She picked up a bottle of saline solution and handed it to me. “Believe me,” she said, “if even a trace of the peroxide is left on the lenses, the patient will scream bloody murder because of the pain. Most of them wear prescription sunglasses out of here, because when people actually finish the eye exam,” here she gave me a stern look, “their pupils are dilated and they don’t want to wear their contacts anyway.”

I thought for several minutes. She asked me if I wanted to finish the exam. I said no.

“Then do you want to leave? We do have other patients coming in.”

I closed the door to the room with the ultrasound machine.

“Please,” I said, “I need your help.”

“If you want contacts, you have to finish the exam.”

“I don’t want contacts,” I said slowly. “I just need to ask you about a contact-lens patient of yours.” I gave her my most beseeching look. “His name was Philip Miller.”

21.

She shook her head. “You must know I can’t talk to you about patients. Especially,” here she paused for effect, as if I were a criminal, “since the police have already been in.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “But please listen. Philip Miller was a friend of mine. A good friend,” I added earnestly. “And you don’t have to tell me anything about him personally or his medical history. I just want to know a couple of things about his visit.”

She hesitated. Her experience with odd patients was clearly limited.

“You see,” I went on in a rush, “I was behind him when he crashed. I’m trying to help the police.” Sort of, I added mentally.

She was mellowing. “So what do you want to know?”

I picked up the saline-solution bottle. “This—” I said after a minute. “Do you remember this from his appointment?”

“I told the policeman all about it. Miller was the first appointment of the morning.”

In good Rogerian fashion, I said, “The first appointment.”

She took the bottle and shook it. “I always do that before I rinse off the lenses. There was just a little bit left in the bottle when he came in. I used it to rinse off his lenses, and then I threw it away. That’s all. That’s it.”

“And did he put the lenses in?”

She nodded. “I watched him do it.”

Whatever happened, I thought on the way home to the Farquhars, must have been something of a delayed reaction. Philip had not excused himself from the brunch, had not left me for more than a moment. I didn’t believe he could have done anything to his lenses—or had anything done—without my noticing. Still, though, figuring on an hour for the appointment, how could you account for that half hour from leaving the optometrist’s office, coming to Elk Park Prep, and then driving back to Aspen Meadow? Why didn’t Philip feel any pain? Why did he suddenly go blind?

As usual, cooking was the cure for distress. The rain had cleared and the air was filled with a sweet, moist smell. I turned off the security system that guarded the first-floor windows and opened them all. Out back, Arch and Julian were splashing and yelling in the pool.

With Julian in for dinner I decided on a crustless quiche made with Jarlsberg and two other cheeses, a salad of lovely greens the general had picked up on one of his shopping expeditions, and some cloverleaf rolls I had brought frozen from my old house. I grated the Jarlsberg into a golden mountain of creamy strands. To my surprise the phone only rang once. It was my lawyer telling me Three Bears Catering had a legitimate case and it would not cost too much to have my name changed. Of course, to him nothing cost too much. I told him I would think about it.

After plugging in the recorder I let my mind wander back to what it was Elizabeth had said about Philip studying an abused woman. One thing I had noticed about making a marital mistake: you compounded the error by spending even more emotional energy ruminating on why you made the mistake, even if you corrected it by divorce. Furthermore, if Philip was so interested in why I had stayed with John Richard for so long, why hadn’t he asked me himself?

I melted the butter and stirred in flour for the cream sauce that was the actual base for the quiche. While I stirred in the milk, I imagined myself hiking with Philip and having him pose the question to me himself. Why did you stay?

Because, I saw myself saying to him. Because I ignored the evidence. I believed that John Richard would change. Because that was what I wanted to believe, just like those poor suckers who went to great lengths to demonstrate that the world is flat. No matter how strong a person you are, if you want to cling to a falsehood, you will. By the same token, I had known that someday I would have to get out. That realization led me to study catering systematically. If I could cook well enough and learn the business, I could keep Arch and have enough money to live on.